


Numb

by NonrealisticallyAdept



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Death, Existential Crisis, Gen, Hurt, Narrative, One Shot, Questions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonrealisticallyAdept/pseuds/NonrealisticallyAdept
Summary: In all of Spy's years, he never thought he would grow numb to dying. Especially not in a place where dying was a constant result of his job.





	

The first time that Spy died, it wasn't even in the field of battle.

In reality, maybe he could lie and say that it was, but both he and his team mates knew otherwise. And what use was lying if his team already knew the truth? But of course they did. They were the ones that had killed him.

They ushered in Spy and they welcomed him with open arms. They smiled at him and they laughed and they joked—they were a very welcoming crowd, he soon realized, offering a delicious array of food that he gladly ate, and booze that he had never even had, and the next thing he knew, he was choking.

Something had lodged in his throat, and not quite in the most subtle way. He coughed and hacked and tried so desperately to force it out, but his esophagus was expanding and shrinking, shuffling it around and wedging it deeper and deeper. Hot tendrils of blood ghosted up his throat, dribbling out of his mouth.

He had extended a shaky hand to them. A strangled cry of 'help'. But they only looked on, or they ignored him, and he suddenly felt betrayed. They were acting as if they it was normal for this to happen. As if dying was _expected._ It wasn't the first time he had accidentally swallowed a needle while drinking alcohol, though in those cases he had always had help with it. He had cursed them in his final moment, uttering curses and threats to them that fell on uninterested ears, and then…

He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. A large room, with bright luminescent lights flickering overhead. He took a sharp gulp of air. He was alive. He was alive and well. How?

And oh, how his head hurt. How his stomach churned. Someone kicked a bucket to him that he didn't notice, and he gave a dry heave, retching up onto the floor right beside him. The next thing he knew, a firm, almost sympathetic hand was laid on his shoulder, patting it a little harshly.

"Welcome t' hell, lad," Demo had said, before helping him to the Medic's infirmary.

* * *

He listened intently as his team mates explained to him the rules of the battlefield—what to do, what not to do. He listened to them talk about respawn. Medic had launched into a small tirade that had eventually died off when he saw the tired looks on the others' faces. For a moment, the doctor looked angry, clenching and unclenching his hands before he let out a weary sigh as well.

They told him that he was a replacement, stationed here to keep the balance of an unnecessary war. They told him that the contract he signed was practically signing his life away to the devil herself. They told him that he was a replacement and that he was expendable. If he questioned too much, then he would be eliminated. If he decided to act out on his own, he would be eliminated.

It made Spy question how many others had been here before him. How many other spies had taken on this task and failed because of how curious their occupation made them?

The team's tired eyes told him too many.

They said they thought it would have been better that he learn now, rather than on the field of battle, where distraction from fighting could result in death.

Over and over and over and over again.

He made a promise to himself that he would tally how many times he died. He didn't smoke, after all—it would be easy to replace the cigarettes in his disguise kit with a small note pad and a pen.

* * *

The second time he died, he burned.

He must have been quite a spectacle, at that. Spy had been doing so well, figuring out how to sap the enemy's sentries and work his revolver and his balisong—he usually just called it a butterfly knife, but here it was called a balisong, and though he wanted to object, he didn't want to be disbanded. So, balisong it was.

His cloaking device, though—that was a finicky thing to figure out, it was. Remembering to time the seconds and when to uncloak and when to stay still just to avoid detection. He was never horribly good at timing, but it seemed that timing was a useful skill for Spies to have here. So he tried counting.

He was only a second off.

He uncloaked loudly right behind Pyro. Pyro heard and immediately turned around, smearing hot and heavy flames onto his coat and burning his hair and making his skin scream with agony. He shrieked, frantically scrambling away. The thudding of footsteps behind him told him that he was being pursued, and the angry, muffled noises behind him and the roaring of the flames made it all too easy to guess who it was.

He scooped up a health pack, hurriedly trying to quell the flames. He made the mistake of looking over his shoulder.

The flames engulfed him.

He woke up with a spasm, frantically trying to pat out the flames, screaming. Rubbery gloves grabbed his hands and clenched them tightly. A voice that might once have been eccentric said, "Herr Spy, please, calm down!"

It took him a while. He remembered the heat. He remembered the burning orange flames. His eyes gazed at Medic, and he hated that he could feel tears gathering in his eyes. He tried to say something.

"Nein, Herr Spy," Medic whispered softly. "Ve already know. You get used to it after a vhile."

How? How do you get used to it?

* * *

Medic was right, though. Eventually, he did get used to it.

He only started to realize that he was fine with it when he scribbled a neat tally and decided to take a glance at the previous pages, merely out of chance. Or of curiosity. Whichever one he fancied calling it. He flipped through the pages, pausing where the tallies grew neater and neater. He counted them.

Fifty-two deaths.

For some reason, he felt bothered. Robbed. Like someone had stolen something from him. Maybe he was frustrated because when the rush of true death came, he wouldn't feel anything more about it than sardonic acceptance. With every fire that ignited his clothes, with every crack of the Scout's baseball bat, with every bullet that stabbed through his brain, he woke up in this room and began to slowly feel nothing.

The neurological wounds were still there, but they, too, began to go away with time. His stomach began to settle when he sat up. He became used to the dull ache in the back of his head, of the phantom spasms of pain that would accompany him with every rebirth, those phantoms that slowly began fading away until he was almost numb to it. Almost, but not quite.

Spy hated it. He hates this numbness. He wanted to feel real pain again.

He shouted at Soldier that night, purposefully offending the American name to such an extent that he let out a battle cry and began bludgeoning him with his fists. Over and over, until Spy laid in a tattered heap on the ground, all broken-boned and wheezing and tasting the vile aftertaste of pain. He began to laugh, softly. And, eventually… slowly, tentatively... Soldier began to laugh, too, though his was more quiet.

He asked why Spy was laughing, confused. "I still feel pain," he had said, smiling through bloodied teeth, still hunched over on the ground; "I still feel it, even with all of this."

"You need to see the Doc," Soldier said, still softly laughing. "We can't have our soldiers out there… you know, in the field of battle, looking like you crawled out of a trench."

Medic treated his wounds. He didn't have questions. Spy got the feeling that he was finally beginning to understand his team.

* * *

He was beginning to wonder how he was able to keep his mind intact. He had died three hundred and twelve times.

And it was mostly to that damn Pyro. Mostly. It frustrated him to no end, but he was pleased. Pyro had a certain dignity about him, one graced with the poise and knowledge of someone who had been there, fighting this senseless war, for too long. He knew everything, it seemed.

He knew what Spy's decloak sounded like, and was able to act accordingly to track him down. He stuck around the Engineer and the Medic the most, keeping an eye out for any tell-tale crackling and footsteps. He spat fire into corners and slipped into places where Spy tended to frequent, and was so accurate in that aspect that he couldn't help but wonder why Pyro wasn't a Spy himself. Pyro kept him on his toes. Pyro made him paranoid.

Spy wished he could hate that, but he couldn't bring himself to. It gave him something to concentrate on in this strange, man-made war. Maybe Pyro focused so hard on burning things so that he didn't have to focus on what he was doing. Maybe burning kept Pyro sane.

He found Pyro sitting with his feet dangled over the edge. Not his Pyro—the other Pyro. The color made him tense slightly, and he debated on acting… then he saw Pyro shuffle, sighing as he pulled off his mask.

Spy announced his presence, quietly. Pyro turned toward him, and he was…

Somehow Spy wasn't surprised.

Spy sat down beside Pyro. They talked. It was nice in its own way, talking just to talk. Pyro's hands gestured in the air, long and sighing like Pyro's breaths. A sigh.

"…I am tired of this. I want to leave, but it can not happen. Why it no happen? Why we stuck here?"

Spy didn't have an answer. A copper-toned face turned to look at him. The face was old and lined with scars and spots. One eye was grey and hazy. Pyro smiled.

"I am tired."

They tried to hide it. They tried to hide that the Pyro wasn't the same. But Spy could tell. That Pyro didn't check the corners. That Pyro didn't frequent the Engineer and the Medic. That Pyro didn't shadow him everywhere he went, hunting him down with fire spewing out of the flamethrower.

He wondered what happened to the enemy Pyro, and his thoughts drifted.

* * *

Sniper had nightmares. Sometimes Spy woke up from his own. It was something that they had in common, having nightmares about dying and killing day after day. He could see how stressful it was.

He found Sniper's nest and walked to a box, sitting down on it as he opened his disguise kit. Sniper looked over, paused, then nodded in confirmation. They shared a silence as Spy flipped through his pad and Sniper took the occasional shot.

Eventually they made small talk. Small things. Wistful things. Spy forgot what they talked about, but it made the bushman chuckle. He cracked a slight, strained smile, before it resettled and refocused to a careful, measured expression. Spy looked down, sighing softly as his face fell, as well.

He lost count again. He'd have to number them.

He heard a light creak and looked toward Sniper. He was so focused that he didn't notice, but Spy did. It was quiet for a moment. Spy pretended not to notice, but he stood up and stepped out of the door way.

He heard the tell-tale noise. A yelp of shock. Spy turned quickly ran back in, aiming a shot at the enemy Spy's head. It missed. The enemy Spy turned towards him: For a moment, Spy was aware of how tired the other man looked. That was all he needed, all he needed. Another gunshot, a sharp pain in the Spy's stomach. He fumbled, dropping his gun. He heard the fizzling of a cloak. He was too late. The Spy had fled.

Sniper collapsed to the ground, clenching at his stomach. Spy advanced towards him, clenching his own. "Go on, scat," the Australian hissed, wincing. "Go heal yourself."

Spy left to heal, but not himself. He limped towards the nearest medicine pack, clenching his stomach and tasting blood. It seemed to take a lifetime to get there. Heh, a lifetime. With men playing God, who needed a lifetime? Spy cringed as he knelt forward to pick it up, then limped back. He was dizzy. It hurt. How was he not yet attacked?

The bushman was still alive, just barely. He gave a confused look. As Spy set out to bandage his team mate's wounds, Sniper tried to insist that the newcomer take it. Sniper could just respawn.

"So could I," Spy retorted, tightening the medicinal strip. He had to lie down, so he did. The Sniper gave an odd sort of laugh—a fond one, almost. "Bloody showpony," he mumbled, before gently rubbing his back.

It felt like falling asleep, and then waking back up again.

* * *

He had died one thousand two hundred and sixty-three deaths. He was tired.

He would eat. Sleep. Wake up and eat again. Fight. Eat. Sleep. Rinse, lather, repeat. It was easier that way. Routines always offered a sort of comfort for the Spy in the past, but now they were bothersome, left his mind open to wander.

He understood his team mates more now. He understood their quiet natures, their secluded personalities. On the battlefield, even, they were quiet. Sometimes Spy thought of them like statues, caught within a single moment of time, just like the pictures in the base. They were caught pre-mortem, a grey shell of their former selves. When the Medic reached over the table to grab some extra food, or when Heavy cleaned his gun with the careful finesse one would have with his child, or when Engineer's or Demo's hands moved mechanically, meticulously over their respectable crafts, fully reliant on motor skills, Spy thought: They were like machines designed to fulfill a lesser purpose.

He had heard that Scout used to be energetic at some point. That he would talk and talk and talk about something that would lead to another, and continue on even when his team mates weren't listening. He would run even in his free time. Drink energy drinks for an extra boost. He would _laugh._

Looking at him, Spy couldn't believe it. Scout was quiet and pushy at times, but not annoyingly talkative. He would pick at his food, muttering replies to whatever questions were shot his way and barely saying a word edgewise. He would somberly stare out into the distance as the darkening skies hit their station, blinking exhaustion out of his eyes. He would run. He would run so much. Too much.

Heavy rarely left his room, other than to talk to Medic, eat, or clean Sasha. Spy had once entered his room and discovered—to his pleasant surprise—that Heavy's room was cluttered with books, and many of them had book marks. All of the book marks marked a few pages before the end. Spy had done that as a child. He didn't like sad endings, either.

To think that he had become a shell like these people. To think that he lost the ability to feel. He wanted to be angry. Oh, he wanted to be angry so very, very bad. But there wasn't anything he could do about it. It was already done.

He wondered a lot of things.

He wondered if the other team was also suffering as drastically as this.

He wondered how long these mercenaries had really been fighting in this decades-long war.

He wondered whether or not this was really and truly the best path to follow.

He wondered. He wondered. He wondered…

He wondered why Pyro had been there. Why Pyro's mask had been off and why Pyro had talked to him. When was the last time Spy had seen his own face? It was hidden behind the mask, staring at the man he had become over the time he had spent there.

Spies were revered for their ability to hide things. The mask was built to represent that. From the mask, he could see tired eyes, an unshaven face, cracked lips. He licked them, feeling parched all of a sudden. The masked man's tongue slipped over his lips, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He scowled at himself. You coward. You monster. How dare you not feel? How dare you?! _How dare these people take away what it was that makes one human, eh?!_

Spy, in a moment of pure, frustrated abandon, took off his balaclava and looked in the mirror for the first time in months. There. That was much better. He was looking at the face of a human now, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

A thought came to him. He considered it for a moment. How long would he continue to be a human at this rate? He could be a human forever, if the only thing it took to be a human was to look like one, then he would be a human forever. As a skeleton, as he was now, as he was as a child. What, then, were the limitations of being a human? How long would it take for him to become a monster, at this rate?

Maybe they were all ready monsters. After all, a monster could look as much like a human as it wanted to, but what really made them different from people was the taboos that were broken. And oh, the number of taboos that were broken _here_. Unrestricted access to killing. Skirting death on a daily basis. Dying over and over and over again for reasons that couldn't be defined as anything other than...

_Stupid._

And the more he grew numb to dying, the more he grew numb to the everyday pain that came with being shot by a bullet, or being burned alive, or being assaulted by bombs and bludgeoned to the point where he could hardly move... the more he thought to himself that he was turning, steadily, into a monster. A monster who was nothing but numb, like his team mates were becoming. And there was no escape.

There was Pyro, of course. But who knew what happened? For all he knew, his enemy was dead, discarded, beaten and broken in the middle of the desert, or in the depths of a dark, unseen cave. But then he thought: What if Pyro was all right? What if Pyro was actually alive, living in a city and starting a family, laughing and talking and smiling? What if Pyro had returned _home?_

There was a sense of urgency to be found in this thought. A spark of desire, a surge of _hope_. Maybe all he had to do was wait until the day that he would be released, or when all of this silly fighting would be put to a pause and laid to rest. Maybe he would return home.

Or maybe he would die, actually _die_. He was tired of pretending to die, anyways. Either way, the thought was a comfort.

He smiled wistfully at his reflection. His lips twisted almost painfully, but there was a genuine feel to it that he thought for the past few days he had lost. Yes, he could hope for an end to this. Whichever one came first, it would be a relief.

He pulled the balaclava over his head firmly, as if it were final.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, this is Nonrealistic! (Well, yeah, who else would it be? I would hope that it would be me, haha.) I just wanted to thank you all for taking the time to read this and providing some constructive criticism-all very much appreciated, all read, and I will continue to read any other pieces of criticism you're all willing to offer! (After all, how else am I supposed to get better at writing, eh~?)
> 
> So anyways, yes, I did edit some parts into the story. Seeing as how I wrote this on a whim at midnight and revised and edited it before going to school the very next day (and on my phone, at that), it's understandable how there are some rather... off parts. Hopefully these edits have fixed them.
> 
> I noticed that a few people have been confused over whether or not it was really Spy's team mate's fault over his death, and remembered that I forgot to include the fact that they were having a celebration. With food. And alcohol. Silly me, writing this at 1 am.
> 
> I also published this at fanfiction.net, so there's that, too. Enjoy!


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